I’m probably gonna regret typing all this out. It’s like, 2 AM, and everyone’s asleep. My husband, the dog, even the cat. And I’m just... here. Staring at my phone. Feeling a little bit crazy, honestly. I don’t even know if anyone reads these things, but I gotta get it out. It’s like a stone in my gut. A REALLY big stone. It’s this contract. This big, FAT contract. For a book. A whole series, actually. With this HUGE publisher. You know the ones. The ones whose books are in every single bookstore, front and center, all the time. And they want *me* to illustrate it. *Me*. Like, little old me, who mostly just sketches in her pajamas and tries to get her kids to call their grandparents. It’s... overwhelming. It’s a DREAM, I know. It's what I've wanted, forever. Ever since I was a little kid drawing horses on the margins of my math homework. But now it’s here, and I just… I can’t. I don’t know if I can. The agent, she called me last week. Said they loved my portfolio, absolutely ADORED my style. Said it was "fresh" and "unique" and "exactly what they were looking for." All those buzzwords. And I was over the moon! Seriously, I almost cried into my coffee. I’ve been freelancing, you know, for years. Little stuff. Local businesses. A children's book here and there for a small press nobody's ever heard of. Stuff that lets me be home when the kids got off the bus, stuff that didn't take up too much of my head space. Stuff that let me just… be. Be a mom. Be a wife. Be quiet. But this is different. This is… BIG. They want me to do interviews. They want me to travel for book tours. They want me to have a "public presence." My agent used that phrase. "Public presence." And I just kept picturing myself, this awkward, shy person, trying to talk about my art to a room full of strangers. Sweating. Probably saying something stupid. Having my picture taken. Oh my GOD, the pictures. I haven’t even thought about getting a decent haircut in like, three years. My clothes are all... comfortable. You know? Not "public presence" clothes. Not at ALL. And then there's the art itself. They expect a LOT. High expectations. REALLY high. What if I mess it up? What if I'm not good enough? What if I suddenly can't draw anymore? It sounds dumb, I know, but it’s a real fear. This tiny, private thing that I do for myself, for the sheer JOY of it, is suddenly going to be… under a microscope. Every line, every color choice. People will talk about it. They’ll critisize it. They’ll have opinions. And not just my friends and family who tell me everything’s lovely. STRANGERS. People who don't know me, who don't care about my feelings. They'll just... JUDGE. It's silly, right? I'm 50 years old. My kids are practically grown. My youngest is off to college next year. My parents are… well, they’re getting older. I should be embracing this, right? This chance to do something for *me*. After all these years of being "mom" and "wife" and "the one who keeps the house from falling apart." After all those years of feeling like I was losing myself a little bit, piece by piece, into other people's needs. This is my chance to GET something back. To be seen for something other than my ability to pack a lunch or remember dentist appointments. But the thought of it… the thought of being *seen* like that. Really seen. And maybe not liked. Or not good enough. It just makes my stomach churn. I’ve lived such a quiet life. A very, very quiet life. And I liked it. I really did. I loved being anonymous. Loved just doing my thing, being in my little world. This would blow that all up. Every single day, every day, it would be there. This pressure. This feeling of being watched. Of having to PERFORM. What if I sign it, and I regret it? What if it sucks all the joy out of drawing? What if I become someone I don’t even recognize? What if everyone around me starts looking at me differently? Like I’m not just… me anymore. My husband, he’s so proud. He’s already talking about all the things we could do, places we could go. My kids, they think it’s cool. Like their mom is suddenly famous or something. But they don't get it. They don’t get how much of me I’d have to give up. The peace. The quiet. The just… being. I don’t know if I want to trade that. I really don’t. And it makes me feel so GUILTY to even think that. So incredibly, horribly guilty. Like I'm ungrateful. Like I'm throwing away a gift. But it feels like a heavy, heavy gift. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to carry it. I just don't know.